A Fine Pint of Ale
by Rain and Vodka
Summary: War is one thing they've sought to liberate their minds from. A past thought to have finally succumbed to an abyss will soon rise before their eyes, and bestow upon them a world in which they never could have imagined.


A Fine Pint of Ale

_A short story by Jamie Caruso_

Chapter 1

Men who cower in fear at the hands of the behemoth are far more admirable than men who succumb to the concept of destiny, and their ego, to decide whether or not they will endure. Call me a coward, denounce me a traitor, but I've lived the life of more than that of a dozen men, I've contributed more to these inhospitable lands than that of a dozen men, and I've seen more bloodshed than that of a dozen men, all who've foolishly fallen before my very eyes. These men are no more heroes than they are scoundrels. I've learned that crusaders are far better idealized in tales—but this is no tale, and we are no crusaders. We may bear blades, we may bear fury, but neither bear comfort in the heart of any living man. Every living man dies after a battle, it just so happens that the dead man lives, for the living man has just witnessed Hell, and the dead man has just been liberated from it. I've seen the depths of inferno amount beneath the very ground I stand upon, scathing the feet of myself and my comrades. Deprived of our masculinity, we lay alone in silence as the world we once knew succumbs to fear and turns its back on us. Slowly but certainly our eyes stripped of nirvana, our minds painstakingly besmirched with inferno, our ears tenanted with the shrieks of agony, and of course our mouths glazed with the occasional pint of ale.

"How bout a fine pint of ale of no cost for a weary man?" bellowed a familiar voice from across the tavern. Rarely do I drift in search of a peasant's brew, but rarely do I turn down a charitable offer either.

"Make it two, Lytherian" I replied, as a few smirks formed among the faces of a few young men before me.

"Alas, I cannot beseech your request Palnethian." replied Lytherian. "But let it be known that ahead of your next arrival, I may just set an extra ale aside, free of charge for an angelic friend" he added.

Lytherian was an old friend of mine. We fought many conflicts together, and like I, he has sought to liberate his mind from his chivalric days. Often it is hard to do such a thing when you've two fingers missing, but a well-mannered jest avails him to take it in an optimistic manner. His black flimsy hair, covering no more than half his head, his torso smaller than any other I've seen, and his voice like that of a child testifies to the youth trapped within his soul that never had the opportunity to sprout. How could it? His hand first caressed a blade at the age of thirteen, and his first slaughter at the age of fourteen. He became a man before he could become an adolescent. Evading the enmity that eventually became his life was hopeless, and in time there was no night where his blade lay absent of the blood of a man. He was invincible; he was cut-throat, yet his heart yearned for harmony.

"Palnethian! About that ale." Lytherian noted. "Come up and let us drink more as the night grows old."

The tavern by this time had always become bare, and it was a tradition of ours to drink our fill, but of course, like the greed striken man Lytherian had become, I'd still be required to pay.

"_A fine pint of ale before my eyes. A brew to savour, a brew to coat my parched mouth with flavour!"_ sang Lytherian as he braced himself for the pissed night ahead.

"Perhaps this ale is no different than war, for eventually plenty of us will fall from it." I uttered.

"Palnethian! Do you dare tempt me to conjure a song with your profound trope?"

I was in no mood for a melody, but a man's means of happiness should not be impeded upon.

"_We fill our cups! We drink our fill! We fill our cups! We drink our fill! The drunkard sleeps, while the sober man weeps!" _he sang_. _Lytherian abruptly stopped and glanced me in the eyes. _"_Drink your fill Palnethian! The night grows old, just like your soul!_" _he howled as he pranced towards to the dim torch mounted above the entrance.

"_We fill our cups! We drink our fill! We fill our cups! We dri-" _Lytherian's melodies were cut short as a hand pushed him aside.

"Out of the way you cursed fool!" marked a well-known voice from the entrance behind me. "Fetch a drink for a loyal friend will you!".

"Tilfare! Come come. Your coin will find only the finest ale here!" boasted Lytherian.

Lytherian pranced his way back to the cask of ale singing his melodies, and splashing ale about his leather vest and linen pants.

An acquainted grip clasped my right shoulder from behind. Tilfare was later than usual, but no time is too late for any drunkard I suppose. Throwing his boots over the table, a volatile stench began to occupy our noses. But of course, Tilfare was oblivious to all his imperfections; his foul odor, untamed beard, snotty nose, soiled teeth, dung covered vestures, and vulgar smelling hair.

"One would expect that in the time it takes to pace from the entrance to a table that an ale would be gracefully grasped in one's hands." pointed out Tilfare.

"My friend, I can assure you that any man would wait an hour, if it were to coat his mouth with the finest ale in Scoff" proclaimed Lytherian.

"Surely you jest? What sane man would venture the insidious Saulfury District, bear in mind during the unmerciful wintertime, for a pint of horse piss?" inquired Tilfare whilst forming a grin across his face.

Lytherian slammed a pint of ale before Tilfare and muttered, "A man no different than yourself I presume?"

"No you fool! A friend!" retorted Tilfare. "I merely do it because we are acquaintances, nothing more. Should you and I ever find ourselves bickering, I'll be frequenting Bilberry Jim, and you know the hearsay, 'Once a Bilberry Jim, always a Bilberry Jim,".

"Very well. If such a premise were to ensue, I'll take to the whorehouse and cast your sister aside for good."

"By God's teeth, you watch that flaming mouth of yours Lytherian!" shrieked Tilfare as he threw his ale aside and rose from his pedestal.

"Settle down you drunkards!" I declared.

Easing himself back into a seated position, Tilfare laughed softly and wiped the ale from upon his over-garment. Lytherian let out a smile as he poured another drink. No night was ever absent of these fool's quarrels, but we all knew deep down it was nothing but harmless mockery.

"Say, Tilfare, your absence last night left us pondering. Not in the mood for a fine pint of horse piss last night were we?" asked Lytherian.

A moment of silence ensued as Tilfare scoped his surroundings discreetly before standing up and swathing our necks with his arms and huddling our heads together. He whispered, "I admit, I was going to let it rest, but since you ask." He made another quick gaze of his surroundings, then he added, "Have any of you seen a familiar face as of late?"

"A familiar face?" I asked as Lytherian gestured in confusion.

Tilfare was quite the natural poet, and story teller, and his tales were unparalleled by none. He could turn any tedious tale into one of pleasure within the blink of an eye. But such a tale we were not anticipating.

"My absence last night is not without reason my friends. As I was venturing back from my nightly visit to the whorehouse a cold pale wind gently glazed my nose with the scent of death. An unusual scent at that, for the winds of the south have long been endowed with purity—or so I thought."

Tilfare began to wet his lips with his pint of ale, when suddenly his face gestured confusion. Slowly stroking his beard and lowering his ale, he continued. "Merely this was no coincidence, so I decided to follow the scent, and to my surprise what did I find?"

"A butchered whore!" spouted an intrigued Lytherian.

Tilfare glanced at Lytherian unimpressed.

"Listen here, I could lose my head for speaking such words, but know that the absence of truth is anything but." he asserted. He gazed one final time at his surroundings. "You do remember our old friend Harp-Harp, do you not?" he whispered.

"Heavens! You saw Harp-Harp!?" Lytherian shouted as he spilled his ale.

"Silence you fool! Do you want us all killed!?" whispered an infuriated Tilfare.

"A-a-ah forgive me." stuttered a frightened Lytherian.

Lytherian slowly manoeuvred his eyes for any prying ears. Only but a few drunkards remained, none of which seemed the slightest bit curious.

Tilfare continued. "I knew the smell was familiar, but it was neither that of a dead man or woman. I had to confirm it for myself and that's when I witnessed the shadow; his figure not endowed with moonlight, rather swallowed in darkness. His transgressions have consumed him."

"Are you sure it was Harp-Harp?" I asked.

"It was barely a confrontation, but I could feel the sorrow emanating from his body, yet I had not the courage nor sympathy to hear his alibi. I've no uncertainty that he desires our presence, but this man chose his path long ago."

Tilfare slowly withdrew back to his seat. A cheerful man now endowed with suffering. His eyes sunken, cheeks fallen, his ale clenched in both hands. Of all that burdened his hapless soul, a fine pint of ale would soon help him bury his past.

Perhaps this sorrowful story necessitates context.

Harp-Harp relished alongside the likes of Lytherian, Tilfare, and I for many a years. We were indeed close, but he and Tilfare were more like brothers. Whether fate decided his path, or whether he abruptly chose to relinquish himself of the world he had succumbed, we might never know. But I can only bear the thought that The Legion's End called his name long ago. The Legion's End existed long before I gave up my blade, but not a single soul would foretell the scourge it would eventually evolve into. It began as an array of infuriated mercenaries, drifters against the cause they were constrained to, and by the numbers they grew, calling those who despised the corruption of the Northern Allied Forces. Perhaps Harp-Harp has come to sway my sentiments, but it is Harp-Harp's tale alone that will forever have me despise The Legion's End till my dying days. His story is as follows. On a night no different to this night, Harp-Harp suddenly, and indiscriminately immersed his blade so deep within the throat of his late wife, that removing it was near to hopeless. Peculiarly enough, she had not ceased breathing. Rather than end her excruciation, he sat her up and groomed her hair quietly as blood trickled down her neck. His daughter was an unfortunate spectator of his horrid act, and fearful that she may utter, he killed her; but not without anguish.

I still recall the grin that settled upon Harp-Harp's face as he recited his distressing daughters death to me. It was our last conversation in the night, before he fled and forever hid from the light. We were all startled, and to this day still. I'm not entirely convinced that it were the calling of The legion's End that drove Harp-Harp to madness, but neither Tilfare or Lytherian has considered such a premise. Tilfare, I fear in time, will yield to his presence, for they shared something deep that supersedes even the relationship of brothers. The battlefield they shared together working as a single unit. Their blades in sync from the very start to end. I merely hope that in time Harp-Harp's presence vanishes for good, for we are all too old for any more misfortunes.

"_I clutched her neck and forced her upon the wall. Hovering my blade nigh to her face I slowly began to caress her velvet cheeks as I stared in awe. Innocent blood ran down her cheeks, but she did not waiver, for the blood of my lineage all but weeps, even in the face of danger. An abrupt and grim murder of her mother right before her eyes, I could only assume that she was well prepared for her ultimate demise. Tightening my grip around her neck I whispered "Jostling my blade down your mother's throat was thrilling", and you had to be there Palnethian, such a scene was chilling! Suddenly I hurled her back onto her feet, viciously seizing her by the hair, scuffing her across the floor as she anxiously gasped for air. Quivering in fear she endeavoured to break free of my clench, but alas her efforts were in vain and no match for my strength. I cut her tongue, I stripped her bare, I pierced her lips, for no talk if she ever dare. Now in the ground she lays, not dead but aware. Now I leave her passing up to time, farewell my little Claire."_

"Tilfare, comfort in these walls is blooming before you, yet you sit in despair. One minute an arrogant fellow, the next a child without a home." said Lytherian as he filled his cup.

Lifting his ale, Tilfare drank it down without any sign of halt.

"Another" he demanded as he threw more coins to Lytherian.

Lytherian gently filled Tilfare's pint while Tilfare looked me in the eye. "Do you think he'll come visit us?"

"If he is wise he will not." I stated. "He has not come for us more than he has come to pay for his transgressions. He is here to ponder his past, and nothing more. Also, don't forget that we swore an oath to the authority that if we were ever seen with him we would have our heads cut."

I had not the heart, nor courage, to tell them what I truly thought. Harp-Harp's presence was all but coincidental. It was The Legion's End, I was sure of it, but such an assumption would not rest easy upon the ears of Tilfare. The identity of any man in The Legion's End is forfeited upon allegiance. The possibility that we knew too much about Hap-Harp was an incentive for him to slay us. If he had come to bury his past then we had to meet our demise.

"Perhaps Harp-Harp truly seeks forgiveness, but he is not going to receive such a thing from the likes of us." asserted Tilfare.

"Forgiveness?...Perhaps" I replied. I could only hope that I was wrong about Harp-Harp's return.

"Enough of that savage. Drink your ale old men." insisted Lytherian. "The night grows weary."

"Relish the night my companions. The night calls me to sleep." declared an exhausted Tilfare.

"W-w-wait! How bout just a few more pint of ales good friend?" suggested Lytherian as he desperately rushed to sit Tilfare back down.

"Out of my way you sap" declared Tilfare as he struggled to keep a firm balance. "Your tavern will see no more coin from me tonight, you fool!". Tilfare struggled to balance himself. His beard was now covered with the soft wet stench of ale, and I was sympathetic to any harlot who had to share a bed with him tonight.

For an hour or two on the eve of every morning we were given the opportunity to forget our afflictions that plagued our minds relentlessly. And like others, the night concluded, suchlike the night after, and the night after that. But eventually we had forgotten that something lurked nigh to our hearts; ready and waiting for the perfect time to strike and liberate our existence from this treacherous world. We were not prepared for the reality that was about to ensue. We thought we'd seen hell, but we were wrong.


End file.
